Somewhere in Space

And suddenly I saw direction boards springing up all the way from Punjagutta to Begumpet and beyond.

Yes, sure I knew that Pranab Mukherji, the Hon’ble President of India, was coming to Hyderabad for a few weeks as part of what has euphemistically been called his ‘Southern Sojourn’. But in all these years, the other Presidents, Fakhruddin Ahmed, Sanjeeva Reddy, VV Giri, Zakir Hussein, Abdul Kalam etc., did not ever warrant this kind of signage. Of course we had the sycophant's ‘Welcome to Hyderabad’ banners and all that, but nothing which directed us to Rashtrapathi Nilayam.

So why suddenly was Hyderabad being decorated with these signboards? And put up by the Traffic Police no less.

I have no definite information and no idea whatsoever why this was done but me being me, I had to wonder why…and in fact postulate a theory, however outlandish it may sound.

You see, I rationalzed to myself, when the President visits any state, he does bring with him a retinue of staff and perhaps even a couple of bullet proof cars. But local hospitality and security are usually looked after by the host government.

Now, in a bifurcated state with a common capital, albeit temporarily, who is the host state? AP or Telangana?

Not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, I have a feeling that Pranab babu decided to bring his own people and avoid any clash. So his convoy will be manned by either the Delhi wallas or his trusted Bengali Sena.

The problem is, that none of them knows the Hyderabad roads. And the convoy travels at breakneck speeds as we all know. So to avoid any confusion, the President asked the Telangana Government to put up signage to show his team the way.

Of course he could have opted to rely on GPS, but who the hell knows? I’m just having fun anyway.

Chaltoon Sahab. Lekin kaunsa Paradise? Secunderabad? Masab Tank? Hitec City, NTR Gardens, Kukatpally, Begumpet, Kothapet ya woh naya  Gachibowliwalla Paradise ya Himayatnagarwalla?

Blasphemy I tell you. There is only one Paradise. And that is in Secunderabad. Next to Paradise Cinema. At the Paradise Cross Road. Everyone knows that Paradise. Where did all these Me-Too Paradises spring up from and when?

What the hell is happening?

Even God manages with just one Paradise. So who are we humans to demand or accept multiple Paradises?

Bad enough that it took Hyderabadis quite a few years for them to understand that there was a difference between the Taj Mahal Hotel and The Taj. I suppose it all started with the Taj Mahal Group deciding to open branches in Koti, Abids, Narayanaguda, Secunderabad and now Jubilee Hills. And then the Taj Group of Hotels confused everybody with Taj Krishna, Taj Deccan, Taj Residency, Vivanta by Taj, Taj Falaknuma and so on.

Thank God Shah Jehan is no more. He would have died keeping up with the number of Tajs’ in Hyderabad alone. I mean love with Mumtaj Mahal is fine, but too many Tajs spoil the T…if you know what I mean.

Whatever happened to the days when a Restaurant, even a clothes store, would put up a board saying “Babai Hotel:No Branches in India”.

There was a sanctity to eating at the one place, buying stuff at one one-of-a-kind shop. Bloody hell you can now buy Karachi Biscuits at some three or four locations in Hyderabad alone. More than the sheer audacity of it all, it’s bloody confusing for everyone from Tom Jones to Google Maps. the number of options popping up when you key in a word like Paradise is insane.

Strange. I can live with the idea of several Apollo Pharmacies, several Batas and as many Café Coffee Days as you can think of. But Paradise???

It’s not just a restaurant. It’s a legend. Bloody hell, it’s a landmark. And I don’t think they have the liberty to throw that name around.

They’re asking for trouble. Just watch and see. Within a few days people will be commenting…yeah, there’s a Paradise in Himayathnagar. But the biryani at Secunderabad is the best. Only that is authentic. And so on.

And before you know it, the Brand Paradise will be a hollow promise of yesteryear glory. And even though I personally am not a big fan of their biryanis, I am an admirer of their brand equity and their architectural skills (the way the original Paradise expanded is a study in innovation).

So please. PLEASE. Stop with this branchifying. I think the city is confused enough already with two-two Chief Ministers. Let’s not strain the average Hyderabadi brain with puzzling questions to innocent Autowallas – Paradise Chaltey kya? And the poor fellow has to look up a map to figure out where you really want to go.

It begins to rain. The whole world runs for shelter. Or their protective gear comes out. Umbrellas. Raincoats. Make do sheets of plastic or even newspapers.

But not me. I take off my glasses. Take off my shoes. And walk slowly into the rain.

Not any more actually. But I am allowed to remember…reminisce, am I not?

I don’t know when, where and how I picked up this habit. But it was one of the most beautiful experiences in my life and I regret that I had to give it up. I don’t miss my cigarettes. I don’t miss my alcohol. I think I won’t even miss my desserts when I eventually give them up. But I miss my walks.

The earliest walk in the rain I remember, was on a trek. We were walking in amazing countryside when it began to drizzle. I could see some groups running for the trees. But the people I was with, just kept walking.

And I recognized a kinship and a bond and walked on with them. I took off my glasses. And suddenly the whole world was clearer.

As in I could see every rain drop that headed for me, while the rest of the world was blurred, in soft focus and the colors of nature took on a soft edge magic of their own.

My hair, of which I had quite enough in those days, would slowly settle down into a flat scalp hugging overflow and strands would bunch up into points that allowed secondary raindrops to fall seductively onto my nose tip.

Unlike sweat that required me to keep rubbing my eyes, rain water just washed itself away. My clothes too, whatever I was wearing, would naturally get wet and hug my body closer for comfort. The squishiness in my walk that resulted was an experience of its own.

Somewhere along the way, on that walk or the next, I discovered that taking off my shoes gave me a connect with nature that was more intimate and personal. And that became a habit. Every time it began to rain, I’d kick off my shoes, take off my glasses and walk.

Was it the feeling on top of my unprotected head? Or was it the near sexual bliss of digging my toes into the ground and curling my toes in ecstasy? Or was it the wonder of feeling my clothes wet on me and eventually, quite soon after when the Sun came out with vengeance, drying up while I was still inside them?

I don’t know. All I know is that this whole cycle of a little wet-mostly dry, half wet-half dry and fully wet going on to mostly wet-dry in places, to mostly dry was a process that fascinated me. I loved the feel of the earth. I loved the smell of the rain. I loved the sliding of water, even droplets, down my cheeks, down my chest and ticklingly down my spine.

When I tried it for the first time in Hyderabad I wasn’t too sure how my feet would take to the asphalt. How my skin would react to the pollution in the air (yes, even in those days). Most important I wasn’t sure how my parents would react.

Luckily this was in the 70s and Hyderabad still held onto some semblance of cleanliness. And a trip around Banjara Hills was actually quite picturesque. We could actually feel the ‘hills’ and see the ‘valleys’.

Even when I was in college in Madras, I used to sneak off for a walk down Sterling Road except that I used to act as if I got caught by a sudden shower…not because I was scared of what my friends would think, but because I did not want to share the experience with anyone. It was a personal hideaway, a personal me-moment and almost an affair.

Only when I got married did I share this kink, and a lot of people thought it was just that – a kink, with my wife. And imagine my thrill, my supreme satisfaction when she turned out to be a kindred soul. And we used to take on the showers of Madras with aplomb.

Several times, both in Hyderabad and Madras, friends passing by in cars would stop and offer me a lift but I always refused. Strangely I never tried this in Delhi, Bombay, Bangalore etc., but I did try it often in Germany.

For a while I was n a small village called Halfing, near Munich where I worked for a few hours everyday and spent the rest of my time catching up with the small town culture of that region, Saw a lot of plays and shows. Scootered through the countryside. And walked in the rain. With shoes on please. I was scared my feet would freeze.

In fact even by the time I was back in Hyderabad and would take both my dogs individually for a walk, I was quite comfortable with the rain. Though things in the vicinity had deteriorated so much that barefoot was an invitation to disease or disaster.

But then lifestyle changes began to take place. My job became more managerial and more about creative writing. I had people who would do the walking for me on a shoot. And I guess I became lethargic.

And soon, the guy who used to love his walks in the rain refused to step into a shower until he was sure that there was a geyser attached.

And then the health issues. And loss of muscle due to long periods in bed in the ICU, the MICU and the Hospital Rooms.

I don’t walk any more. I can with great difficulty walk to the end of my street and back.

But I shall never forget the lifetime of pleasure that this simple act has always given me. A pleasure that with scant hair and a body gone to seed, I can at best replicate by taking a couple of steps while the shower is doing its job.

The problem…or the advantage…depending on how you look at it, or the time of the day…is when people ask you whether you are a foodie first or a writer…or whether you are a Bengali first or a Hyderabadi.

Being a Bengali by initiation, I have lived through the confusion of not knowing whether to DRINK water or EAT it…Jol Khaben…and being a Hyderabadi by birth, I have imbibed the culture of the impossible tomorrows and the far away day-afters…Kal Parson.

But was it the Bengali side of me that taught me how to savour the food as much as the anticipation and the experience? Or was it the Hyderabadi Nawab hangover that made me salivate verbally over every meal, every cuisine? I don’t think I shall ever find out and even if I do, the discovery may not be definitive.

If you’re getting the feeling that I am mad and confused, I don’t blame you. Remember I am the fat little kid who was brought up in the streets of erstwhile Calcutta, believing that fish when cooked became potatoes. (Mrs. Mazumdar, how could you)?

I was also the young fellow with an evolving palate that was tempered by Andhra Pickles as much as Jhaal Muri…as much by idli-wadas as by Phoochkaas.

So being a Madrasi in Calcutta and a Bengali in Hyderabad makes you one confused foodie. Especially when you discover nuances of Hyderabadi cuisine that make you grasp at insanity straws for survival.

For example there is a drink served in Hyderabad that has magical powers. Once you drink it, every other liquid, wine, whiskey or potion feels insipid and tasteless. Once you drink it, you firmly believe that there is a merit in being silly…and totally irreverent at times.

Over the years I have learnt to call this a Drink of Faith. And it is on tap in the city. You don’t have to go to any expensive bar or club for your dose of this elixir.

What’s it called? Well, the simple folk of Hyderabad have always called it Hyderabad ka Paani. More exotic variants are the Gandipet and the Manjira. And the purer the version you drink, the more Hyderabadi you become.

Chataas make way for Chatris. And Kurtas allow Sherwanis to flutter in the wind.

And that brings us to what we eat…Hyderabad ka Hawaa…as in the phrase “Chal, hawaa khaake aatein”.

Eat some air? WTF. If you thought the Bongs were crazy to say that they ate water, what do you do with a populace who swear by an Air Diet that makes you lose your mind instead of weight.

Damn. But the whole thing reeks of madness. Only when you go back in time and find the commonality of both the people can you even begin to understand, leave alone appreciate their similarities and their differences.

And the answer my friends…is blowing in the winds…as you sit atop a Rickshaw.

The Calcutta Model rides high and was inspired by a man who thought “if a horse can pull a cart, so can man”. And so the horse drawn carriages made way for the Rickshaw Puller driven Rickshaws.

The Hyderabad Model on the other hand was built around the logic that a man riding a bicycle could easily accommodate passengers in his wake. Even the brand was a give-away…Cycle Rickshaw. Now how much more clearer can you get?

Ok. Rub your eyes, wipe your glasses and focus. This is the Jurassic Park of the ‘kal, parson’…that by the way means the Park of the Past or the Future…depending on whether you’re wearing white or coloured underwear.

Anyway, one growing species is the Bengali in Hyderabad and the other is is the Hyderabad Foodies Clubber. And naturally the people who are great eaters and prolific writers etc. are the Sabyasachis and the Rahuldas of the world. And a Banerjee is always related to a Samosa. Or should that be Singara?

And as the Hyderabad Foodies Club celebrates 3 years of its existence and the Bengalis in Hyderabad get ready to celebrate their passion for films and for their forefathers…Rabindranath Tagore and Satyajit Ray, I take a back seat and drive…the roller coaster’s picking up speed, but you can’t hear me screaming.

Hop on…

 

In the middle of the Hussain Sagar lake in the city of Hyderabad, stands Asia’s tallest monolithic Buddha. An engineering marvel known more for its resurrection than for its artistic or aesthetic significance.

Very few people know that where the Buddha now stands, used to be a cluster of rocks, in the middle of the lake, known to most as the Rock of Gibraltar.

In the middle of the Hussain Sagar, a few days back some of Hyderabad’s young enthusiasts (and even a couple of older ones) gathered together for a Kayaking Event. And thanks to a friend who was part of the organisers I found myself shoreside on an overcast Saturday morning.

The energy and the buzz was palpable. Young anxious faces confessed their apprehensions and voiced their fear of performing badly. That could be embarrassing, they thought.

On the side, awaiting their pleasure was a fleet of six, swanky kayaks in red and blue. Three seaters, they were designed to take a captain and two oarsmen. And as the teams jostled for position and the chance to choose their ride, I found myself slipping into nostalgia.

I found myself thinking of many years ago when the Sailing Club had imported one of the first Kayaks. A blazing Ferrari Red two seater that was parked in the boat house until brats like me got Yadgiri or whatever was his name to pull it out and launch it.

I have never been too much of an outdoorsy person. I have only enjoyed long walks. Thirty Forty kilometer walks to be precise. But at my own pace, most of the time reading a book as I walked…and chewing on a chocolate, a Lacto Bon Bon in specific.

But somehow I took to the kayak. I loved the way my arms and my shoulders took the brunt of the effort required and my mind and body co-ordination kicked in effortlessly. And so it came to be that I was a fairly regular user of the Kayak.

I loved the way it gave me access to the whole of the lake (almost) and the only limit to the distance I could traverse, was my own stamina and strength, both of which I used to have in plenty (in them days).

Naturally I knew the Rock of Gibraltar. I used to kayak around it frequently. And got quite familiar with its topography. But only when I realised that there was a nook built naturally into the rock, did I begin to think naughty.

Imagine a place, right in the middle of a lake, right in the middle of a city where you could lie down with a book and some music, and lose your self for an eternity. It was bliss.

And then the foodie side of me took over. I found that packing some sandwiches from the club and carrying a soft drink or two made the trip fulfilling.

Now, remember the Rock of Gibraltar was out of bounds for most of the city. A gang of us used to swim to the rock almost every morning when I used to stay in Gagan Mahal Colony and was part of an urchin gang that used to swim in the ‘Tank Bund’ everyday.

And I, who had learnt to swim in Dhakuria Lake in Calcutta and in a pukur (pond) in my landlord’s village in the 24 Paraganas District in West Bengal, preferred to swim in the lake than at the Swimming Pool at the Club or the one on Lower Tank Bund Road near the Water Pump.

As nature took its course with my life, I found myself with a girl friend or two at several points in my life. There was this particular one who was a Tomboy. And I found that our connect was more interesting when I exposed her to my exploratory adventurous self (pun definitely intended).

So Bike Rides on my Jawa were par for the course. Long drives in her car were standard. And then I thought of a mid-lake picnic.

So we landed up at the Sailing Club. Ordered our sandwiches and soft drinks. And then set off for the Rock. Reaching there, I managed to place my kayak in a position that was safe i. e. it would not float off in a hurry. And then spent almost the full day under the mid-day sun, chomping on sandwiches, sipping soft drinks and talking love.

That then became a habit. And the Rock became a love nest of sorts. Obviously this could not be kept a secret for long and then I arrived one day at the club, girl friend in tow…only to find that the Kayak had been taken out by another couple. That was perhaps the end of the Romantic angle the Rock had developed in my mind, but I shall never forget the sheer beauty of the place.

It was as if in the middle of the sea, there was a desert. And the only thing you could do was to find yourself. Aah, heady days!!!

I left Hyderabad then for the pursuit of life…education, job etc. And when I came back I found old NTR had other plans for the rock. And young love was definitely not part of the plans.

The rest, as they say, is history.

But when I saw the Kayaks that morning, I felt good. Alive. And I must thank some people who made it possible for me to be part of the excitement. Then. And now.

Of course, I felt funny looking at a 3-Seater Kayak…wonder what we would have done with a Captain aboard

The first thing that struck me was that the Dramatic Circle Hyderabad should immediately meet the Set Designer. Because Unnati Pingle is the perfect inheritor of the Set Designer mantle from Dinaz Noria (who no longer works in Theatre) and Aparna Karve (that lovely girl who is now redesigning heaven).

The set, designed and fabricated by Unnati (and sponsored by her she says) set the standards for an evening at the Hyderabad Golf Club with the Blithe Spirit.

But alas, the rest of the performance was no match.

I am not saying the actors couldn’t act. Far from that. They could all act. But seemed unfortunately to be actors from different schools…with the same backdrop.

Confusing? You bet.

In contrast to the oh so symmetrical and classy background set with the sofa set centered to perfection and the cushions angled to perfection, the ladies for instance were obviously more influenced by Hindi Soap than anything or anyone. The screeching was typical of a popular saas-bahu soap, and as irritating.

Stuck in the middle of all this – a hyper wife and a lisping ghost - was poor Vikram, the young husband who decided to be all docile and almost subservient…as against a more manly husband that he could perhaps have chosen to be.

What I am trying to say is that this is a malaise that seems to be affecting many theatre groups in Hyderabad. They all try and adapt, they all try to Indianize…but they all do this to different degrees. So you have a conflict of accents on stage. And lose out on consistency of sound.

So while you contend with one version of desi vs. another, you also have to contend with the fact that this is a comedy – horror play. Let me confess though, that the closest they came to horror by effect was during the interval.

As for the Comedy Angle, there was plenty to be had. Even as the climate refused to oblige and become pleasant, and the air whisperers were on full swing, things began to amuse. The constant chatter of the Golf Club members clashed with the dialogs on stage. The bursts of Fans and the sprinkling of Mist Blowers tried valiantly to battle the heat, but how much of humid summer can machines tackle?

The openness of the HGA performance space was picture perfect, but just that. Looked good only in images. The sound was dissipated due to the same openness. And the constant feedback from the speakers was an irritant, especially in the beginning of the first act.

The other problem that the space created was that it prevented the intimacy of theatre in the beginning, and thus failed to allow the actors to connect with their characters or their audience. I remember one theatre expert who taught us about the concept of concentration leakage, and how this could affect the performance focus of the audience.

Even if I ignore this, I must say that I thought the costumes were too forced. It was almost as if the Director and the Adapter/s forgot to translate not only the lines, but also the characters.

So the play began in Hyderabadi Hindi. Never to be heard again. Then the four characters spoke English in accents that put Pygmalion to shame. Their costumes too were forced. From Sarees to Nightgowns of an indiscriminate kind.

And in the middle of all this, my dear friend Rahul Reddy. Hair pulled back into a pony. Shaved and styled like a late 1940s American Gangster. Dr. Khurana could have been so much lighter…in color, in weight and in persona.

To top it all, the main sponsor of the event proved to be a big distraction…though he sat quietly in the corner, he was immediately attended to by hawk-eyes…and the obvious plugs about the club and the Volvo were so weak that they were not even funny.

And then there were the bugs. They started off innocently enough, but soon became a potent force that attacked ankles, eyes and back of the necks.

That was the last straw. I had come with great expectations. Expectations from the play, from the place and from the people. And except the set that at least remained true to design, everything else disappointed.

The script was good enough, but the tempo was established only well into the first act. Then the laugh lines started getting reactions, one after the other.

The lighting, given the temporary nature of the set up was a standard X profile with dramatic use of the LEDs. Here however I felt that the normally ever so calm and cool Keshav Deepak, allowed a bit of a slip into dramatic flickers.

The many, seemingly meaningless blackouts did not help.

Ok, I realise that I am beginning to sound caustic. And I normally avoid that tone. I know how much work has gone into the whole production. But in all fairness, the anchor for the evening did invite us to criticise without fear…

All things said and done, I did manage to see a new space. One that I’d heard so much about. That it may not be the kind of place that I’d like to put up a play is insignificant. But it did bring in a new audience…even if the same audience needs to be educated about not creating a buzz while the performance was in progress.

A word about the core team. I’ve found Director Taher Ali Baig and Producer Rahul Reddy to be a good working combination. This time too they worked. But they let Kanishka Dasgupta influence the play too little.

At the end of the evening, though I had to make a premature exit, I was confused. Some good things, others that could have been good and a few that rankled made me wonder if I should have stuck to Shakespeare itself.

But No! I have seen four or five versions of the ‘Complete Works, Abridged’ including the original English team and the inimitable Evam, and maybe I was better off not watching yet another version.

Missed the LaMakaan samosas thoughAah well…

The Ballroom at the Secunderabad Club. My God, the place has as many memories as it has steps leading up to them.

For those of us who grew up in the club in the 1960s and 70s, the Ball Room was a place where dances were actually held every week. And those of us who were interested in acting, the early and mid 70s were fun days. We were part of the first version of the Secunderabad Club Dramatics Society (SCADS) which was later revived in 1988 (after the bulk of us dispersed around the globe).

My first Club play (Not with my Daughter, I think) was actually put up on the lawns. It had Sanjay Khanna, I remember. And Hashim Tyabji. And the late Mr. T. Chandrasekhar Reddy was in charge. Was he President then, or just a Committee Member? He was so elated with the audience reaction to our play, that he signed off several bottles of liquor and cartons of cigarettes for us to ‘Cast Party’ in the rocks of Jubilee Hills.

Then we put up a play with Tarun Dhanrajgir and Anjali Bhushan (now Ramayya). This was in the mid 1970s.  In the 1990s, we put up a play with Hari Pai, Poornima Rishikesh and others. Then for some strange reason I stopped directing plays for performance at the club and also stopped climbing the stairs to the Ballroom.

Health issues in most of the latter part of the 2000s made sure that the Ballroom was out of bounds for me. And even when I kind of recovered, that venerable stage remained a distant dream.

But today, I was determined. I would attend the play. My dear friends Aarti and Ranga were involved. And I wanted, so wanted to see a SCADS production once again.

As I walked in towards the formidable steps, I was reminded of a friend who had once commented that the club made him feel that he was in an old colonial environment and he half expected a Brit to jump out of the trees, and pull him up for the way he had knotted his tie…or not.

The Club does have that sense, that feel. Even I who have grown up in its portals, felt it today. There was a distinct ‘Burra Sahib’ feel to the whole evening. And it was not because it was insanely hot.

While the stage had been done up to look contemporary and the light fittings helped, as did the floor mikes and so on, the Ball Room itself remained the quaint old place. With the wooden doors and windows. With the large French Windows, and the huge balcony.

Even the fans looked like they had been installed before the Second World War. And they were swinging widely.

I felt that I had entered another century.

So perhaps it was fitting that the play ‘Touch & Go’ was from an ancient genre. So reminiscent of the Bedroom Comedies and Farces made so popular by Dramatic Circle Hyderabad in the 80s and 90s, the play was a hilarious set of moves.

Actors came on stage, were surprised to be there, were surprised to be found and even more surprised when solutions were being offered. Lies led to more lies. And the play was all about an entrapment of words.

Of the actors, all of them who were good, two deserve special mention.

Avinash Matta as George. As the man who’s de-trousered in the play. As the helpful friend who lends his flat and covers up the indiscretion with an embarrassment of lies. Avinash reminded me of a young Ranga (maybe because of the beard and role). Except that he did not have Ranga’s clipped brit accent. But his body motion was vintage stuff.

Aarti Karmakar as Jessica was a case of an actress refined. Everything from Line Delivery to Stage Movement had evolved. There was maturity yes, but more importantly there was pleasure and ease. Especially her last line, when she twinkled amazingly on stage…wow!

But I must be fair. I lived the experience of being in the Ball Room after a decade or so…more than I enjoyed the play. In spite of the sweat, the intense heat and the discomfort, I slipped back in time and into the comfort of memories. I mean there WAS a time when we used to run up and down the stairs…

There was a time when we used to shout for bearers from the rooftop and arrange for snacks and drinks to be served in the privacy of the terrace. There was a time when the Ball Room and its surrounds were host to a young, ‘in-hiding’ band of smokers. There was a time when young love often blossomed in the heights of the high ceilinged hall.

But all said and done, SCADS would do well to plan winter productions. Any performance, good, bad or ugly, deserves to be seen in comfort. Then and only then can an audience genuinely react to the performance. Last night people were fighting for a spot under the fans…at the cost of ignoring the performance of the people under the lights.